


Boats Against the Current

by The_Female_Gaymer



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-North Yankton, Pre-North Yankton
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-26
Updated: 2017-12-16
Packaged: 2019-02-07 08:25:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12837180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Female_Gaymer/pseuds/The_Female_Gaymer
Summary: Michael heads out onto the the Los Santos ocean for a day or two of solitude. Trevor invites himself along, and the reminiscing the time spent alone sparks proves dangerous for the both of them.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Surprise! I'm still... sort of alive in this fandom. Due to some real-life events, I've decided to go back to my roots one last time. GTA V was where my fanfic journey started, and I'm really close to moving on to something spectacular I hope. So, one last time... here we go.

Some great saint something or other once wrote, "Men go abroad to wonder at the heights of mountains, at the huge waves of the sea, at the long courses of the rivers, at the vast compass of the ocean, at the circular motions of the stars, and they pass by themselves without wondering." It was a reflection of man's thirst for endless knowledge, without quite caring for himself or his fellow man. A reflection of self hatred. A reflection of despise for the rest of humanity, and a lack of desire to learn to love honest and deep of each individual life. Man was so focused, so intent on moving forwards, to press onwards at infinitely climbing speeds, that they tended to lose sight of themselves. History, lost, irreplaceable, and not even a fraction of the world minded at all. The pace had been set too quick; there was no longer time to focus on the roots of mankind. It was about the machine and the majority, never the individual needs of each separate unique human being. No one had time for each other. No one had time for himself.

That was what Michael thought of it as, at least.

Being left to your own devices is a dangerous sort of thing. Two opinions are always more valuable than one, regardless of who it's coming from. They can aid in making an educated decision. True, one can be made without second opinions, but it is always wise to err on the side of caution. But Amanda had taken the children out of town, which left him alone, and Michael had the money anyways. There was no one to make him think twice about the decision. And, last of all, he figured that he owed it to himself to treat himself. He'd put up with so much shit over the past few months, from family, enemies, and friends alike, worked himself to the bone, and pulled off the greatest heist in recent recorded history.

Yeah, he figured with himself. He deserved this.

So he bought himself another yacht.

He was at least partially reasonable with his purchase-- nothing ridiculously extravagant. Something big enough to fit the equivalent of a small one bedroom apartment inside with two floors. Kitchen and bathroom on the main, bedroom below. But he had the money, and he wasn't going to be hosting any major parties with it; it was a personal craft. It was for him, and him alone. The best part? He had time to play with it.

He leapt the distance between the dock and the boat, nearly slipping on his ass upon landing, but his hand snagged a bar and he manage to keep his footing. He inhaled deeply, and sighed, satisfied. New leather and fresh wood; a smell he could get quite used to, if it would only last forever. New leather, fresh wood, and sea salt. God, he'd missed this.

Michael had a checklist with him-- he would never remember to check for everything otherwise. It was probably not the best idea to go out on the sea for more than twenty four hours without being prepared for the worst, and he would rather not be eaten by sharks anytime soon. Life jackets with whistles. Air horns and flares, for distress signals. A waterproof flashlight. First aid kit. Emergency boat repair kit. Fire extinguisher. Functioning radio. The ship was in pristine condition, without any leaks or malfunctions to speak of. Michael checked off each requirement, one by one, until he was certain that he was ready to set sail without a shadow of a doubt.

He smiled, excited. The ship could be controlled electronically, but one of Michael's favorite things about the ocean was sailing. He  _ loved  _ to sail, and today, the wind was drafting out over the open water-- the perfect conditions for it. He wanted to feel the tarp of the sails draw taut against the wind, catching and swallowing it, and casting him out across the waves. He wanted to work the ropes and the lines, feel the ship responding to his manual command, not something assisted by a computer. He didn't want to have to hear the whirr of a motor beneath his feet. He wanted the snapping and creaking of sails,  _ real _ sails. The wind was good and strong, and he had the nautical knowledge to commandeer a ship. He could do it. 

Michael slid one of the life jackets over his head, dabbing a glob of sunscreen on his nose, and began to make his way to the mast to check the tautness of the lines. He was going to enjoy this so much. Nothing at this point would stop him from setting out, he told himself.

That is, until he heard a familiar whistle. 

Michael didn't even have to glance back to know who it was, but he did anyways, and gave the other man a withering stare, before turning back around to check the lines as he prepared the sails.

"Go away, Trevor."

The Canadian, propped against the dock ramp railing, scoffed, and rolled his eyes. "What, a guy passing through can't ask his best friend what the fuck he's doing with a toy way too big for him?"

Michael spoke to him as he raised the sails. "It's a yacht, T. It's supposed to be big. Not that you would know anything about yachts. Stick to your little fucking dinghies or whatever it is you drive. The text I sent out was to let you all know where I was going-- it wasn't an open invite."

"Fuck you," Trevor growled, "I am an educated man! I know my way around a fucking boat. Let me prove it to ya."

Without Michael's permission, he leapt into the watercraft, startling the older man. Trevor darted up the steps to the mast, testing the knots on the lines. Michael dropped what he was doing, coming to stand close to Trevor.

"Get the fuck off my boat before I cuff ya cross the head," he warned.

"Did this thing just come in today? Smells new. How long we gonna be out for?" Trevor asked, licking at his bottom lip with a smile. Michael snatched up his wrist, prying his hands away from the sails. Jesus, did the man understand what "no" meant?

"*I* am going to be out for a day or a day and a half. Two, if I don't get bored or lonely. It depends on the weather, and how long it takes me to circle around San Andreas.  _ You _ , on the other hand, are going to get off this yacht, and play in the sand like a good little boy."

At this, Trevor pouted. "What, you think a boat like this is too sophisticated for me or something? I can sail with class with the best of them. I've sailed my fair share of larger craft, and I think you ought to have a second mate, anyways. For safety purposes. I mean, what the hell are ya gonna do if you fall off this thing while it's still going? Who's gonna find ya if no one knows where you're going?"

"You know where I'm going," Michael pointed out with growing impatience. "Out to fucking sea. And I'm not leaving sight of LS, you dumb fuck. I'll only be gone a day or two. Just stay here, will ya?"

"Come oonnn," Trevor whined, "I'm bored. There's nothing going on anywhere. Business is slow, Franklin's dicking around with Lamar hunting for his mate or some shit, there's nothing going on. This could be fun! Just you, me, a couple of cold ones out on the big blue, reminiscing about old times-- it could be good for us! Our relationship!"

Michael wanted to gag at that wording. Relationship. Our relationship. Then, he remembered the size of the yacht all of a sudden. 

"There's only one bed."

Trevor was unfazed. "I'll sleep under the stars. That's the only fucking ceiling I need. Look, Mikey, you're gonna get lonely out there. Two days of no human contact is gonna drive you batshit. I know you, alright? You won't like it. You'll spend a night out there, realize how quiet and lonely everything is, and you'll come running back to the docks searching wildly for someone that will pet your hair and tell you everything will be alright. The only way you're gonna make it through this little excursion of yours in one piece is if you let me tag along."

"I am giving you to the count of three," Michael hissed, "to get the fuck out of my boat before I beat the shit out of you and drown you."

Trevor had been smiling, but it had begun to gradually fall as Michael continued to deny him. "Fuck, you  _ owe _ me, alright?!" Trevor shouted it out at last, grasping at straws. "You abandoned me for ten years, fucker. A little one-on-one time between us will help settle things a fraction more."

Michael took a shocked step back, before growing cross, and he ran a hand through his hair. "Jesus," Michael breathed, "you're gonna hang that sword over my head forever, aren't you?"

Trevor only shrugged and gave a noncommittal grunt. He continued to look at Michael expectantly. Michael shook his head at Trevor in disbelief. He sat down in one of the seats, and put his head in his hands.

"Get a sleeping bag, a swimsuit, and for God's sake, some clean stuff to wear. I want perfect fucking hygiene from you while we're out there, because I will not suffer through your B.O. for two days in an enclosed space. I'll wait here. You have forty five minutes."

Trevor was off like a gun, darting up the dock ramp in a flash.

"You won't regret this, Mikey!" Trevor shouted excitedly. "You'll remember this for years and years!" He tripped, and swore, but kept going, anxious to get back within a reasonable time frame.

Michael watched Trevor vanish from view, and when he was certain the other man was out of earshot, cursed at himself. He cursed himself for not being able to stick with his resolve and keep Trevor at arm's distance. Now, he was stuck. Two days of being stuck with Trevor Philips on a boat. Two days of no one BUT Trevor Philips. Two days of just him, and Trevor, on a crowded little boat. 

This was going to end horribly.

 

* * *

 

There were a lot of things Michael regretted about leaving North Yankton, when the time came. But then again, there were a lot of things he never would have gotten to experience and find a love for otherwise. One of those was his love for the sea. And, as he came to eventually find, he was a natural-born seafarer at heart. 

Managing the ropes and the sails was easy. He'd learned it during his first years in Los Santos in a flash, much to the excitement of his kids and wife. They were still young enough that he could convince them to pretend to be pirates with him; Jimmy and Tracey would trade off being captain each time they went out, and Michael would guide them through what exactly to do to ensure the ship ran smoothly. The novelty wore off for them eventually though, and, like with most things he enjoyed in his life, Michael had yet again been left alone. He went boating less after that.

And instead of them, now there was Trevor. Though, in a sense, it might as well have been the same thing. 

"You're gonna break my fucking boom!" Michael shouted, swatting at Trevor as the Canadian laughed. "Stop swinging from it, you asshole!"

"I weigh less than you," he pointed out, though he acquiesced in his command. His feet thudded down on the deck with a clatter, the wooden floorboards not making a single creak. "Besides, if your precious boom can't handle little old me, how's it gonna fare in a storm?"

"That shouldn't be a problem; the sails would come down, and the boom would be locked up tight so it ain't swinging around everywhere. But Christ, Trevor, the thing's not meant to be a fucking playground!"

Trevor simply rolled his eyes, sitting down in front of Michael with a huff. He reached in to the cooler Michael had brought out, nabbing a beer and popping open the cap with his teeth. He looked past Michael behind them, back towards the docks they were slowly but surely leaving behind. They were just about to pass the threshold between the inland waters and the sea, and the sun was already on its way to setting, being just past eight at night. On the boat radio, Bob Seger's "Night Moves" faded into being from Los Santos Rock.

"So what entertainment do you have planned for us out here?" Trevor took a swig of his beer.

"I brought some fishing rods," Michael said. "Dunno if I'll actually use 'em. A book or two, a telescope, some music-- I mean, this was meant to be a one-man trip, Trevor; I didn't exactly have time to work things around you showing up, so excuse me if the entertainment is not to your liking. You invited yourself; just remember that when you're bored shitless."

"I'll get by," Trevor snarled. "Why the hell did you set out so late, anyways?"

"The stars. Forecast said the skies should clear up tonight, and it's going to be cloudy tomorrow night, so I'm doing my star gazing as soon as I can. We'll probably stop somewhere south of Elysian Island, far enough away that the light pollution won't interfere too badly."

"Since when did you give a shit about stars?" Trevor eyed Michael out of the corner of his eye.

"Since when did  _ you  _ give a shit about boating? You're an Air Force man, T."

"That's besides the point. You ain't ever cared about giant balls of gas millions and billions of miles away before."

Michael gripped the steering wheel tighter. "Look, it's just something to do while I'm out here. Some of the stuff I brought to do I might not necessarily enjoy traditionally, I'll admit, but it might be different out here. It might bring a sense of nirvana. I don't know. Can't a guy try something new without getting judged for it?"

Trevor splayed his arms out over the top of his seat, letting his head loll back. "Jesus, didn't know I wasn't allowed to ask questions. Sorry for having a deep, inset instinct for curiosity."

"Whatever, T." Michael squinted against a sudden light sea spray. "Do me a favor and go check the lines again. I feel like the speed's off for how strong that wind's coming in; somethin' might be loose."

With an "Aye aye, Captain!" and a mock salute, Trevor placed his half-drunken beer into a cup holder, and darted up the steps to the mast, scouring the forestay and the other various lines, tightening or loosening where he felt it needed corrections. Michael watched him with narrowed eyes, searching for any sign of disrespect towards his boat or inadequacy in nautical knowledge. But Trevor was cool, and efficient in his task, and Michael relaxed. As the Canadian finished, he took a hold of the mast, leaning out over the edge of the ledge where the sails were set, eyes focused on the setting sun behind them. Michael observed him, taking note of the hidden exhilaration and energy hidden behind those amber eyes. He chuckled, suddenly taken back to the first time he had seen them.

 

* * *

 

"What the fuck do you two think you're doin'?!"

Michael stumbled out of the beat up old Primo, shaking his head as he beheld the too nosy asshole that had followed him, and the guy he was supposed to meet up with. The fucker that had trailed him here was some middle aged fat guy, nose red as a cherry and grey, balding hair. His face was red as he shouted at Michael's supposed assigned partner. Michael tore his gaze away to absorb the sight of his partner.

This was the first time Michael had seen him. He couldn't hardy be older than he was-- maybe even younger. He was definitely early twenties, that much was for sure. He just stood there, listening to this guy rant as he waddled out of his car. Dark, dusty brown hair waved in the bitter winter wind, and Michael was taken aback by how bright his brown eyes were. He didn't even know if the color could be considered brown at this point. His hands were clenched by his sides, shaking slightly as he attempted to keep his temper.

Michael knew he had to diffuse the situation before someone got hurt, or worse, the police got called. He came between the two of them, holding up his arms. "Jesus, would you hold the fuck up? What's the problem, sir?"

The old man wheezed on his breath, the chill air making his breathing difficult and harsh. "I saw you hauling ass here, kid. Way over the fucking speed limit. I was gonna let it go, but then I heard the fucking gunfire. I ain't deaf! I know what this is about! Do you have any idea how many people you killed just now on your way here?"

Michael looked over at his partner, then back to the old man, waving his arms in front of him wildly. "You've got it all wrong-- my dad sent me to get this shit."

Michael's partner's eyes widened subtly at that, and the fat guy was worked up into a rage. "What kind of dad has his son picking up weapons and bringing them to a runway?! You're full of shit! You're smuggling this shit over the border, I know you types!"

Michael furrowed his brow, and made calming motions with his hands. "Sir, I get that you're upset that I cut you off at Jenkins Road, but can you  _ please _ try to calm down here? You're being unreasonable! These claims you're making just don't hold up!"

"Oh yeah?" The man's face turned even more red, and he marched to Michael's Primo, huffing the whole way. He pointed at the trunk with a shaking finger. "Open it."

"I don't have to do shit," Michael snapped, growing suddenly defensive. "I have a right to privacy."

"Open up or I'm calling the police!" He procured a cell phone from his jacket pocket to prove his resolve, practically waving it in Michael's face.

Michael took a step back, and was surprised when he accidentally backed in to his partner. The guy was slightly taller than he was, and he looked around and up. The guy was sneering, a growl working its way up his throat. 

"Is that a call you really want to make?"

His voice was thick, rumbling gravel; the sound of it threw Michael off guard. It was so menacing, and the way he spat out that threat held promise of something dangerous.

"You're a menace!" The old man was screaming at this point, face redder than an apple. "A public menace! Giving weapons to the fucking Canadian assholes? What the hell are you thinking?! That's Goddamn American property! You stupid little shits can't get it through your dense skulls that you are weakening our defenses?! What the hell would your parents think of all this?! What would--"

"This is your last chance," Michael's partner growled, "to shut the fuck up!"

Michael hadn't thought it would have been possible for the old man's face to go any redder, yet somehow it did. "You lowlife, hick sack of shit, I will not be bullied around by you! And your fucking buddy trying to gaslight me? I'm not having any of this shit! Listen here, what I'm gonna do is I'm gonna--"

The shot didn't come from that of a pistol, but it might as well have been one from how the sound of it being fired, and colliding with the man's skull, echoed for what seemed to Michael to be miles. He leapt back, immediately smelling something burning, and he shouted in shock.

"What the  _ fuck _ ?!" He leapt behind his partner, looking around wildly for the source of the gunshot, when his eyes settled on the smoke rising from his hand. When he peered over his shoulder, he saw that he was holding an empty flare gun. Michael shook, watching as his partner lowered his arm, and their eyes trailed to the body that now lay before them. Michael saw where the flare had entered his body, and he nearly gagged at the sight, covering his mouth and darting a short ways away. He ran his hands through his hair.

"What the fuck did you just do?! Did you seriously just shoot a flare... in his  _ eye _ ?!"

Michael's partner looked at his hand with wide eyes, as if it was crawling with spiders, then tossed the used gun away, peering over his shoulder at Michael with a masked disgruntled expression. "He wouldn't shut the fuck up," he replied coolly, pointing at the body as if the dead man could still hear him. "I warned him, you fucking heard me."

"Goddamn it, dude!" Michael darted back over, and gagged again. That was not a pretty sight. "Goddamn it! Did you think about what you were doing at all?! Fuck, fuck me! Fuck, we-- we gotta get rid of the body. Fuck, fuck!"

Michael's partner looked back at the body, then back at Michael. "Easy. There's a lake nearby. Just pack up the guns in the plane, we'll drop 'em off, then we'll take the body to the lake. Easy."

Michael glared at the other man. "Nearby? The nearest lake ain't for fifty fuckin' miles, genius! Nearby my ass! Fuck, this sucks! This fucking sucks!"

"You'll feel worse in prison with a dick stuffed dry up your ass," the man growled. "Unless you swing that way. Either way, I'm not sticking around long enough for the police to show up. Pay or no pay. I'm giving you ten seconds to decide what you want to do, but I'm not hauling this thing out of here alone. I can't lift this fucker into the plane. So what's it gonna be?"


	2. Chapter 2

Something cool was knocked against his head, and Michael was jarred from his musings. His head shook slightly as he looked up at Trevor, who was holding himself up with one arm grasped to the boom, and his body jutting out far forward. His other arm was extended in offering, and in his hand was an unopened bottle of beer.

"Knock knock, Reality's at the door. Knock back a cold one."

With a curt nod, Michael accepted the drink from him, and with a mutterance of "cheers," flicked off the cap and took a long sip. Trevor did the same with his second beer. Silence settled between them for a brief period.

"So," Trevor ventured, "what were you thinking about that had you oh-so-longingly gazing off into the distance?"

"Did I do that?"

"You certainly did." Trevor smirked, sitting next to Michael instead of in front of him. "I ain't seen a look like that on your face since the night before the Union Depository. You were wasted, my friend, and so melancholy; you were saying shit like, 'It's the end of an era,' and, 'I dunno if I'm ready to finish this.'"

Michael's ears turned pink at the accusations. "I was drunk. The Union Depository was the end of an era, yeah, but I was ready for it. I'm satisfied with the way things went down."

Trevor quirked an eyebrow. "Really?"

"It could have gone worse."

"It could have," he agreed, "but you would have preferred that I never found out about your lies. So you weren't completely satisfied."

"That's unrelated," Michael countered, somewhat upset that Trevor was bringing this up  _ now _ . "The shit I pulled with Brad and the Feds got nothing to do with the Big One."

"It does for me." Trevor leaned forwards, beer bottle loose in one hand as he spoke. "Y'know, that whole time-- that  _ whole _ time-- that we were in those trucks on our way to the bank, I was trying to pick at your brain without actually getting in to it. That's hard to do. I was sittin' there, thinking, 'How's he gonna ditch me this time? At what point of the heist is he going to make his exit, leaving me and whoever else is left to face the heat while he gets the take?'"

"T," Michael balked, "stop thinking like that."

"Well, gee, how can I help it?" Trevor paused a moment, thinking. "You didn't say a word to me. You could have been honest, you know."

"Honest?" Michael asked.

"Yeah. About Ludendorff. About what was going on. You could have just told me that it was going to go to shit instead of leading us into hell."

"No, I don't know that. You're delusional, Trevor. I don't know when you're gonna take shit okay, or when you're gonna fly off the handle. I can never tell with you. You're all over the fuckin' place."

Trevor bared his teeth. "You seriously thought it was okay to lie to me and Brad about what was going on? You thought that wouldn't have  _ ANY _ repercussions at all?"

Michael gestured at the air, as if what he wanted Trevor to understand was hovering before them. "I had a young family. A young family I was struggling to provide for with what we were doing. I had a wife that was wondering every night you and I went out together if that was the night I wasn't gonna come home ever again. The Feds knew what we were up to; we weren't discreet enough. They were gonna come after us, one way or another, and all the shit we pulled in other towns was gonna catch up to us. I had to make a choice; years in prison with no outside contact, or getting shot down and leaving Amanda with two kids that she could hardly bring in enough income to raise. And what they were promising me... I may have not only let my family get to me as a weakness, but my greed, too. I'm arrogant and self-absorbed, but at least I know it."

Trevor grunted at Michael, looking out over the waves behind them and drinking again. "I'll never understand family shit. I'll never understand why you didn't just move on when you found out Amanda got knocked up."

"I'm not a complete asshole. I made a mistake. I had to be around to help."

"Your conscience is a weakness, Mikey," Trevor taunted. Then, a little more quietly, he added, "Except for when it comes to me, I guess."

Michael did not make a comment. He pretended to not have heard him, and Trevor didn't repeat himself.

The sails went down at around 10:30 that night, folded carefully and packed away in an easily accessible spot to be put up again the next morning. Lights from the Los Santos skyline were dim, and distant; the perpetual noise of angry drivers and police sirens was instead replaced by the sound of small waves lapping at the sides of the yacht and the slight wind, which had been dying down gradually for the past few hours.

Michael re-emerged from the hull, a telescope case under his arm. He placed it on a seat, then knelt down to the floor, grabbing a handle and yanking up a table from the floor, pre-built in to the ship. He placed the telescope case on the table, the latches were snapped open, and Michael peered inside at the thing for a beat, before taking it out and inspecting it with curious hands and eyes. Trevor peered over his shoulder.

"You really ought to wait for the clouds to clear up more," he suggested, placing his third, half-drunken beer on the table. He swayed slightly, but he wasn't unsteady on his feet just yet.

"That ain't supposed to happen until early in the morning, T; I ain't waitin' that long. Whatever I can see is what I'll have to settle for."

Trevor rolled his eyes, bounding up the steps towards the front of the ship. Michael pulled the telescope open, admiring its copper coating for a moment, then retrieving his star chart he'd printed solely for this occasion. He'd have to work around the clouds, but hopefully, he could make it work.

"You start from Polaris," Trevor reminded him, standing all the way at the front of the bow. "But I ain't seein' it. I'm telling ya, there's too many fuckin' clouds."

Michael glanced at Trevor, giving him a withering glare, before bounding up the steps to the mast. "I'll manage."

Trevor shrugged. "Suit yourself. Just don't say I didn't warn ya when you're tossing that thing in the ocean."

Michael grunted at him, bringing the device to his eye after inspecting his star chart carefully. A short while later, Trevor left the bow and came back around to the back, disappearing beneath the deck into the ship to retrieve some of his things. A few minutes after, Trevor re-emerged from the hull of the yacht, changed into something more comfortable for sleeping in, and his sleeping bag under his arm. He laid it out over one of the longer seats and shimmied in to it, hands under his head as he stared up at the stars and clouds.

Michael swore under his breath. "I got the Three Kings and Orion, but that's about it."

"Mmm, child's play," Trevor commented, eyes unwavering from the sky above him. "I could find that one easy, with or without Polaris. You're just bad at star gazing."

Michael refrained from chucking the telescope at Trevor's head, collapsing it and leaning back against the mast with a frustrated hum. The only sound to fill the distance between them was the perpetual rock of the boat against the waves. Eventually, Michael grew bored and restless. Just as he was about to get to his feet, Trevor broke the silence.

"You should sleep out here with me."

The answer was immediate. "No. My back can't handle those shitty seats. Too stiff."

"Don't be a pussy."

Michael glared down at Trevor; he had to lean to be able to see him, and Trevor wasn't even looking at him-- his gaze was still on the sky. "I'm forty nine, Trevor. I'm  _ old _ . It ain't like the old days where we could sleep in a car and get away with it in the morning. You, maybe you can do it, since you ain't been inactive like me. But I can't do that no more."

Trevor closed his eyes, and inhaled deeply of the sea air around them. He sounded dispirited.

"It's just-- nevermind. Fine. Go sleep in the hull, I guess."

Well, now michael was annoyed  _ and _ curious. He had to know what Trevor was going to say, or it'd keep him up. Michael dared to push him for answers. "It's just what?"

"It's nothing."

Michael swung his legs over the edge of the platform where the mast lay, feet dangling a few feet from the main deck. "Come on, T. Don't be like that. What were ya gonna say? You can't say something like that and not expect me to push ya."

Trevor opened his eyes at last, looking irked, and he sat up enough to angle his body around to glare up at Michael, supporting himself on his forearm.

"It's just we never do shit together anymore. We can be in the same place doing the same thing, but we don't do shit  _ together _ . You get what I'm saying? Like... it's like we never even had a dynamic to begin with. Like all those years in Yankton didn't mean jack shit. We're just two people that do the same thing for a living that just somehow ended up in the same place together."

Michael frowned. "Well, I mean, look, that ain't how it is. We did a lot of shit together. We still do shit together. I mean, look at us now."

"We're on the same boat," Trevor agreed, "but what are we doin' together? As friends? Sitting in awkward silence waiting for something interesting to happen so we'll have an excuse to keep from discussing our problems? I'm not fucking retarded but... I don't know. It's just... things have changed. And I don't like it."

Michael sighed through his nostrils, uncertain what to say in response to that. Trevor  _ did _ have a point, and he couldn't deny that, but at the same time, he didn't think things were so bad. He wished more often than he personally thought healthy that he could get into Trevor's brain and find out what he was thinking. The man was an enigma sometimes; it was difficult to figure him out. Even though he was laying out so much on the table now, there was still so much Trevor was keeping hidden from him, in the deepest recesses of his mind and heart. Not knowing these things scared Michael a little.

Michael leaned back, angling his head to look up at the sky as an excuse to keep his gaze off of Trevor. "It ain't that bad. We did something fantastic together, T. You, me, Lester, Franklin-- we did something real fuckin' spectacular. Did that not happen the way I remember? Am I remembering something different than you?"

"That was a job," Trevor pointed out. "That was  _ work _ . When was the last time it was just about  _ us _ ?"

Michael shook his head; this was getting way too personal too fast. "We're here now, T. And I  _ told _ you-- this was meant to be a one man trip. This was meant to be an  _ escape _ for me. So, tell me-- are you enjoying yourself? Is this what you wanted? Is this the bonding experience you were expecting? Because this is exactly what I had planned for just myself."

The other man went quiet for a long time, staring down at his hands. Michael waited patiently for a response.

"Think I had too much to drink," Trevor muttered at last. He rolled back over on to his back, blinking dazedly up at the sky once again.

Michael was surprised by Trevor's lack of confrontation. Normally, a conversation like that would have blown up into an argument of some sort, but Trevor had kept quiet and cool throughout the whole thing. It made him feel somewhat guilty about how he had handled the situation himself, but then, he reasoned with himself, this was Trevor. Getting too sentimental with Trevor usually yielded undesirable results. 

Michael dropped down from the ledge he'd been sitting on, packing up the telescope and placing it back in its case. Just as he was about to excuse himself and head down into the hull for the night, Trevor spoke up one last time.

"Sky might clear up at around one-ish, if you want to stay up that long."

Michael paused.

"... I can't."

Trevor said nothing. Michael closed the door silently behind him. 

The sky opened up at two. 

 

* * *

 

"Oh, yeah, very classy, T," Michael commented snidely as he emerged from the ship to the sight of Trevor's pants around his ankles as he pissed in to the ocean at the back of the yacht. 

Trevor, in response, glared behind him at Michael, finishing up quickly. "Well, excuse me, I didn't know you'd be up before eight and that I had to uphold a decency standard in the middle of the fucking ocean." He knelt down and picked up his pants, pulling them back up over his slim hips.

"Whatever, Trevor. I'm used to it. Mostly. Actually, no, I'm not used to it. And that don't give you an excuse to let your pants sag around your fucking ankles." Michael sighed as he sat down at the table, checking his watch. "I think we'll start off again around seven. Seems like a good time to me, at least, and if the weather holds up, we could make it all the way around to the waters around Fort Zancudo by night."

"That far, huh?" Trevor seemed mildly impressed by the calculated distance. 

"Yeah. I did the math. I didn't go into this unprepared."

"Yeah," Trevor said. "So what's there to eat for breakfast?"

Michael waved over at the door. "Whatever you can find. I had toast and eggs. I'm giving you permission to enter my abode, but I swear to God, you make a mess of that kitchen and I will personally castrate you."

Trevor snickered as he walked past Michael. "Ooh, kinky."

"Having your balls chopped off is  _ not _ kinky, you insane fuck."

"All in the eye of the beholder, Mikey. All in the eye if the beholder."

"I'll fucking do it, Trevor. Don't test me." He called after him as he vanished into the hull. Michael ran his hands down his face, staring to the east and watching as the horizon slowly grew brighter, and the sun just peaking over the waves grew larger. The waves were shockingly still, but that only added to the serenity of the morning. If it weren't for knowing that Trevor was somewhere on the ship, it would have been perfect. The smell, the breeze, the rising sun, the sound of calm waters-- it all was perfect. 

Michael let his head loll back, eyes closed as he drank it all in. With Trevor below deck, he could have a moment to his thoughts.

 

* * *

 

He heaved dryly, but there was nothing left in his stomach to empty. He'd already thrown up everything his stomach could hold, but the smell of the corpse simply would not leave his nostrils. It still hung heavy in the air, all around him, and if he was certain of himself, it was in his clothes, too. He'd never be able to wear this particular set again.

His partner followed shortly after, stumbling out of the plane and falling to his knees, gasping for fresh air. They'd flown over the lake, and Michael had pushed out the corpse once they were around the center. Even though the body was gone, the scent of his burning skull and the contents within remained with them for the remainder of the flight. 

"Fuck!" Michael gagged, wiping his mouth with the back of his gloved hand. He glared at the other man. "I could have just talked him away, asshole, but no, you had to fucking shoot him, didn't ya?!"

Michael's partner glared back. "Fucker was getting personal, and I didn't like it. Someone had to shut him up, and you were doing a piss poor job of it."

Michael just shook his head, grumbling to himself as he dusted himself off. "Whatever. Whatever, man; what's done is done. Fuck, just, let's move on from this and pretend it never happened."

They stood together in silence for a little longer, still sucking in fresh air. Michael was taken by surprise when a hand was shoved into his face. He blinked as he glanced up.

"Trevor."

Michael looked up at the owner of the hand, realizing it was his partner. "What?"

He rolled his eyes, shaking his hand in an attempt to encourage Michael to take it. "My name's Trevor. Trevor Philips."

Michael narrowed his eyes to thin slits. In this business, when someone was offering you their hand and a name, it usually meant they planned on staying involved with you, if they could help it. Most often, the partners Michael was assigned got the job done, took their cash, and left. But not this one. He took a good, long, hard look at the man offering him his hand. Was this someone he wanted to get involved with? He'd been considering finding a running buddy for some time now, but not seriously. He'd heard it was easier to pair up than to go it alone. But he'd also heard it was a dangerous gamble; all sorts of things could go wrong in a relationship like this. Your partner could stab your neck in your sleep. They could be completely unhinged. They could end up being more of a liability than a consistent ally. It was a dangerous gamble, and with someone like this, Michael wasn't sure he wanted to introduce himself and potentially seal the deal.

But, the more he thought about it, the more he remembered-- things were starting to get dangerous out there riding solo. Most everyone he'd encountered he'd taken jobs from was grouped up one way or another. If he suddenly got jumped by a group, he'd have no one to watch his back. And this guy-- Trevor-- seemed to be able to handle himself well enough. If worse came to worst, he could probably be the asshole to kill Trevor in his sleep. No big deal. 

Michael stood up straighter, working the kinks out of his neck, and after a beat, finally accepted Trevor's hand. 

"Michael Townley."

Trevor's grip was strong, and he shook Michael's hand firmly with a Cheshire grin. "Pleasure's mine," he claimed.

Michael only grunted. He shoved his hands in his pockets and looked out over the horizon. "Gonna guess you wanna know where I'm holed up now, huh?"

"That would be correct, amigo," Trevor confirmed.

Michael kicked at the dirt beneath his feet. "It's the motel at the edge of town. I was probably gonna jump town tomorrow though. Need to move on before I get tied down. This ain't the best town for picking up work."

"Yeah, sure, what time?"

Michael closed his eyes. Yep. This guy wanted to tag along. It was just as he feared. Still, he felt his mouth moving of its own accord.

"Seven. Sharp. If you ain't there, I'm leavin' ya behind."

He would never quite figure out why he said what he had to Trevor. He would never begin to figure out why Trevor was an exception to his "always go it alone" rule, or what about him had made him accept him into his life. Michael would never know any of that, only that it was the beginning of all his major troubles in life. Trevor fucking Philips. 

Trevor nodded, and took a few steps backwards, before uncertainly turning his back, and walking down the runway towards the vehicles.

"I'll be there. Mark my words, I'll be there."


End file.
